


Snap

by Anonymous



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: The Next Generation
Genre: Other, amanda who?, i write these all at once, if theres enough response ill add chapters, im not gonna lie to you, im starved for q content, listen buds this is wish fulfillment, maybe one day ill return to this and flesh it out, non binary character, the pairing is veeeeery subtle, theres inconsistencies and i do not care, this is my fic i do what i want, this was going to be a big fic but i have neither the drive nor the time, voyager? whats that?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-05
Updated: 2020-05-06
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:08:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23998747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: "You're not particularly special, are you?"Frasier leans their head onto their right palm, elbow planted on the hard countertop. "Well, in the grand scheme of things, no. Most people aren't. I'm not exactly an omniscient, omnipotent, semi-omnipresent being. Personally, though, I think I'm a good time."Q mirrors them, sliding onto the stool across from the bar and theatrically leaning onto his left palm. "A good time, you say? I'm game. What would that include, if I may ask? Something tells me my idea of a good time is vastly different from yours."Frasier leans forward. They have a very intriguing gleam in their eyes when they look in the corner of the deck. "How does causing a little chaos sound?"
Relationships: Q (Star Trek)/Original Character(s)
Comments: 18
Kudos: 10
Collections: Anon Works, Fanfic Anonymous, anonymous





	1. A Sense of Humor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's dangerous to be interesting.

As a rule, they tolerate most people; race really doesn't matter to them like it does to others. Actions are their frame of reference to liking or disliking a person.

That being said, the Ferengi are very, very horrible. Just in general. Frasier does not like the Ferengi. 

"Human female, bring me my meal immediately!"

Frasier does not like the Ferengi at all.

Working at Ten Forward is harder than people give the staff credit for. A free ride on the Enterprise it is not. Grumpy crewmates fresh from a fifteen hour shift trying to save the most recent planet/civilization/injured patient are not good company or customers. Additionally, allies or visitors of other races stopping by now and then with table manners Frasier's grandmother would have a stroke to see are a royal pain in the ass. A particular occasion concerning Klingon warriors and a blood feud haunts them. 

"Immediately, I said, wench!"

Ferengi are a whole other ordeal of their own.

"I'm sorry, sir, for the wait. You'll have it right to you when the people before you get their food."

They've learned not to waste time correcting people who won't listen. Ferengi thinks they're a woman? Let them think Frasier's a bipedal fish in hot pants, if it'll get them to go away faster. Humans got it fairly easily, normally, but some of the species that came to Ten Forward had Opinions. Very close-minded ones, at that. Shocker.

Frasier has a degree in xenolinguistics. And a physical xenoanthropology degree with a focus on the Andorian race. 

They work at Ten Forward. 

The Ferengi says something he thought they won't understand- a very rude epithet referring to both women and their 'use'- then snarls when Frasier's coworker Ben passes him his... something. It's certainly a food substance. Maybe.

The Ferengi scoffs at Frasier. "Useless. A man has done your job better, as we always do."

"Enjoy your meal, sir." They want to carve their eyeballs out with a rusty spoon. He walks away with one final scoff of disgust.

A soft hand on Frasier's shoulder startles them out of their frustration. Guinan; she always seems to know when Frasier needs a cool down. More like when they were going to do something stupid, actually. They have a way of causing problems when frustrated. Big problems.

The primary replicator still smells like fire. And the faint scab on the floor previously known to the galaxy as a Klingon pinky would never come out.

"How's it going, Frasier?"

Bless Guinan. "Oh, you know how it is. Ain't nothing change but the weather. Unless you're in space. Then that doesn't change either." They close their eyes for a moment and blow a deep breath out their nose. "Neither do the Ferengi, apparently."

"Remember your breathing."

Ah. Breathe in for six, hold for eight, let out for six. You do not want to strangle the Ferengi.

"Good. Here; take these to the bridge. Alpha shift needs something to drink, they've been at it for a long time. It'll give you some space away from here."

"I'm..." Frasier dragged out, eyebrows raised. "I'm not a _yeoman,_ Guinan, I-" 

Guinan gives them The Look.

Frasier knows to pick their battles.

"Okay, okay, just stop looking at me in that tone of voice! Yeomen Gordon reporting for duty. Hand it over, hun, por favor."

It's a spread of assorted beverages, ranging from what looks like a dark fruit juice to what smells wonderfully like well-steeped tea, steaming strong wisps of vapor from the small opening of the lid. Yum. Picard seems the tea type, from what they've heard. They hadn't met the guy. Riker and Troi are nice, though. Troi got extra brownie points for not being rude when grumpy. And Riker's an excellent trombone player. Data is pretty cool, as well, beautifully quiet in a sea of chatty people. When he does talk, he's a font of fascinating conversation and facts. Frasier is fiercely curious, to a fault. Every bit of information gets stored in their head. 

None of them deserve to be messed with, really. The problem is when the big people take advantage of the little people. THEN there's an issue.

The lift isn't crowded, Frasier is thankful for. Heaving a heavy tray isn't fun. In the silence, they look down at the reflection in the metal tray. Tired grey eyes stare back from slightly sunken sockets on a too-thin face. Buzzed hair don't have the risk of dropping strands into food or drink. 

They look like they feel. Tired. Frustrated. Sad.

Small.

They shake it off. _Kn_ _ock_ _it off, Gordon. Not the time._

_Beep-beep._

Ah. Showtime.

The lift door slides open to the bridge, a place they've only had the ability to visit once on the grand tour of the ship every crew member is given at the start of their assignment. That time was with a somewhat empty bridge, however, between shifts.

Lieutenant Worf turns to look at them, slightly twisting to see. His face smooths out when he sees the tray. 

Frasier clears their throat. "Guinan sends her regards, sir. I figured everyone would know which is theirs."

They step closer, and Worf wordlessly and surprisingly plucks the cup with the fruit juice. "My thanks," he rumbles.

Frasier smiles (it feels hollow, but it always does) and nods, a 'no problem, hu- lieutenant,' freely given. _Do not call your superior officers pet names, Gordon._

They go around the room, passing out the drinks; Commander Riker a plain water, Captain Picard (unsurprisingly) the tea. Counselor Troi smiles at them and accepts her own slightly colder tea, but scrunches her eyebrows slightly when they hollowly smile back. Ah. _Well, if she's gonna go poking around in my brain, she might as well get a little sad,_ they think. _I've got plenty of it to share._

When everyone gets their drinks, Frasier goes to wait for everyone to finish and take the dishes back, but-

"'Earl Grey, hot' once again, Jean-luc? I thought as a captain you'd be more adventurous. Well, shame on me for believing you would be anything but stuffy."

_...What?_

There is a man where Riker had just been sitting, just a few feet away. Riker himself has been... moved, for lack of a better term, to over by Lieutenant Data, who has turned around and cocked his head to the side. The man has full Admiral pips on his collar, but the way he lounges across the chair like a bored king is at odds with that. He does look very comfortable with himself, impressively. Not many can pull off a casual air like that.

Picard launches himself out of the command chair, tea smoothly placed on the arm. He doesn't look happy.

" _Q!_ Have you not had _enough_ with this ship?"

The man- Q, apparently- seems delighted by that question. "Of course not! Why, I think it might just be one of my _favorite_ places. It has a certain... charm to it. A quaintness."

"Find another of your _favorite_ places to pester, then. We have no need for you to darken our door any longer. There is no lesson we wish to be taught!" Picard puffs up like a canary.

_Well. Lessons aren't really planned out, are they? They just kinda happen when they need to._

Q snaps his gaze from Picard to Frasier. He squints a little, and a slight smile plays at his lips. "That was a fascinating thought! And quite correct as well. A tad _loud,_ though, most are background noise."

Frasier suddenly feels the eyes of everyone on the bridge stare at them. It is not a good feeling.

Picard runs his eyes over Frasier's face. "Crewman?"

They gulp. "I, uh. Well. All I thought was that lessons are um. They aren't planned. They happen. When they need to." Frasier hurriedly added, "Captain."

A smile from Q. "You seem to be the only one who thinks so, among these fuddy-duddies. Maybe you should be captain!"

Frasier gapes, eyes wide, and Q snaps his fingers. They try to move, but they-

-are sitting in the captain's chair?

Heh.

"Fix this, Q. This instant."

They look over to where Picard is now standing, wearing their horrible checkered waiter outfit.

They can't help it.

They snort in laughter, once.

Delight radiates from Q. "I think I like this one. A sense of humor goes a long way in a captain! Now, what's your first order, Captain...?"

"Crewman, you wi-"

"Oh, do be quiet, Jean-luc. It's always 'stop it, Q' or 'go away Q' or 'don't make me immortal, Q' with you people. Maybe a little silence will do you well!" He snaps, and a _ziiiiip_ sound echoes around the room. Picard has a cartoonishly big zipper over his mouth, as do Riker and Data within Frasier's immediate sight.

They _really_ can't help the snort this time either, but it's quieter and Q's the only one to hear. He practically oozes smugness.

He continues. "Ah, that's better. Now, for our new captain. What is the first order of captain- what was your name? All the little people blend together."

He isn't wrong. Sometimes they feel like The Crew instead of Frasier. Picard's muffled, angry words are background noise to Q's words; they've turned to look at him, now leaning forward in the chair and giving them his full attention. It's slightly disconcerting.

"...Frasier. Frasier Gordon." They wipe a somewhat sweaty hand on their (Picard's?) uniform slacks. "Something tells me I've got no choice."

"You're batting a thousand, Captain Gordon! You are _completely_ correct. In fact, I'm feeling particularly giving at the moment, so this order sticks. No take-backsies."

They think about it. Actually, genuinely think about it, to be honest. They think up a pretty good idea.

"Can I keep it in reserve?"

That shuts him up. His jaw shut with a _clack,_ teeth clicking.

Huh.

Q leans back. His eyes turn calculating, but there's something else going on with his face. There's a quality to his face hard to describe. It's almost there. It's _too_ human, strangely enough. The (admittedly handsome) human face contrasts with his inhuman aura and makes their brain feel stretched.

"You know what?" He finally decides, "Sure. Why not. If only because you surprised me. Not many can do that."

They nod once, still a little shocked. "Ah. Thanks, hun."

"Oo, that's a new one." He leans back again, arms folded behind his head. He snaps again, and they're back over where they started, in their uniform. Picard's back in his seat, but the zipper is still over his mouth. Q sighs, looking put-upon. 

"You're no fun mute." He snaps his fingers, and the crew lose the zippers. From the corner of their eye they see Troi delicately wipe her mouth.

"Well, Jean-luc, I have a proposition for you. A rather good one if I don't say so myself. But this is, shall we say, a private matter." Another snap, and-

-they're in Ten Forward.

They feel kinda nauseated.

Guinan is looking right at them, and she has a practically murderous expression. Oh, dear.

"I didn't do anything this time."

_"Q."_

"H- actually, yeah. How do you know that guy?"

She closes her eyes. "How I know him hardly matters." Her eyes snap open, her hands falling onto Frasier's shoulders. The motion jars the tray. "He's trouble, Frasier. Big trouble."

Oh, no. "Well, he uh. Owes me a favor now. Hooray?"

Guinan gives them the flattest look they have ever been given. Oops. 

"You and I need to talk about this," she warns, "right now. Take the rest of the shift off and page Drex to take your place. I'll meet you at your quarters in ten minutes."

Big oops.

* * *

"Do you remember the mission where we were pursued by that huge cube-shaped ship?"

Frasier rubs a hand down their face, falling into a chair by their bed. "Yeah. That was a scary one. Lost Stacey, among others."

Guinan takes the chair opposite them. It's a small room, but it's big enough for a bed, table, two chairs and a desk. It's nice. "He pushed the ship thousands of light years away from any known civilization, and put us in front of an extremely hostile race bent on tearing the ship apart. He did this because Picard wouldn't let him join the _crew."_

"Huh."

"Not only that," Guinan says, "he put Picard on trial for the crimes of humanity."

Frasier doesn't really know what to say. "Sounds excessive." 

"That's Q. Excessive and guiltless."

"Did he send us back, too? The cube disappeared suddenly."

She nods. "He did. Not out of any guilt, no, but because he made Picard beg."

Now _that_ is certainly an image. "That's... hard to picture. The man's composure incarnate. Musta been some cube."

Guinan scowls and plants her hands palm-down on the table. "This is not a _joke._ Q is dangerous, capricious. He holds grudges lasting millions of years. He is not your _friend._ And I mean this in the nicest way possible when I say you have more in common with him than I'd like."

Wow. "I'm devastatingly handsome?"

Guinan puts her head in her hands, then looks upward as to say 'whoever's up there give me strength.' "Things like that are what I'm referring to."

"He's omnipotent, arrogant, has sudden fits of pique, and is immortal in every sense of the word. You're on his radar now; that is _not_ a good thing."

Frasier thinks about it. It really doesn't sound like a good thing. Sounds fun, but not good.

"I don't really want to give any order, honestly. I just said it to get him to drop it. I don't intend to collect."

Guinan shakes her head. "That's almost worse."

Their response is cut short by something buffeting the ship.

Ah. Must be one of those fits of pique. 

The Enterprise stabilizes quickly. It's Starfleet's finest ship for a reason.

"The Captain's going to want to brief you on this when it blows over. Brace yourself, he can be intimidating." 

"He is, ain't he. I also, um. Maybe might have laughed. At him. A little."

Guinan sighs.

This kid.

* * *

"I trust Guinan has given you the basic details."

Picard is genuinely very intimidating. He makes a lot of tough decisions, and a strong personality is needed to lead so many people. He's Captain for a reason.

Frasier nods. "Yes, sir. I got an overview."

He nods back. "Good. You see why we do not share these details among the general crew, I hope. And why you are now in a _very_ dangerous position."

"Attention from Q isn't something to take lightly," Riker warns. "Which is why you're being placed under surveillance."

They blink. "Um. Permission to speak freely, Captain?"

"Granted," Picard answers, sitting in his ready room chair.

"I don't really see the point? If he can do anything, that won't do much. It's like trying to put a forest fire out with a water pistol. Sir."

Picard and Riker share a look. "You have a point, Crewman, but it doesn't hurt to be cautious," Riker tells them.

Picard adds, "If Q approaches you, immediately contact a security officer. That is an order."

That's a scary phrase to be on the receiving end of. "Alright, sir, can do. Something tells me he'll leave me be for a while."

Worf makes himself heard for the first time. "Q is unpredictable. He will appear when he wishes and no later. Prepare yourself as if he will appear any minute."

"Yes, sir, Lieutenant Worf. Understood."

"Before you are dismissed, Crewman," Picard leans forward to say, "I must say that laughing at a superior officer is not an action to be taken lightly."

There it is.

"Captain, sir, I apologize sincerely. If it's any consolation I laugh when I see myself wearing this in the mirror."

Frasier can tell Riker wants to smile, but is hiding it quite well. Impressive.

"Apology accepted. Dismissed."

"Yes sir.'

On their way out, Troi stops them and takes them aside.

Troi smiles kindly. "I'd also like to talk about your-"

Frasier really doesn't want to hear about that. "-I'm so sorry for interrupting, Counselor, but can we talk about that some other time?" Or never?

Her eyebrows shoot up. "Of course. I apologize. Please set up an appointment, soon, I'd like to speak to you about something."

"Will do, counselor." Sure. 

Yeesh. Intense. They could use a stiff drink.

If they could even find one. 

* * *

Synthehol defeats the purpose of booze. What's the point of drinking if it doesn't get you drunk? Unless it's wine. Wine deserves its own category.

They really want some wine.

Guinan left Ten Forward a little bit ago, so Frasier's got nobody to talk to about the new development. They're just sitting at the bar, small glass of depressing synthehol staring them in the face, Ferengi making a clamor in the corner. They're so bored. And sad. But when aren't they bored and sad?

"You seem sad, Gordon. Penny for your thoughts?"

 _"Jesus!"_ Frasier exclaims, jumping about a foot off their seat in fright.

"Not quite."

They press a hand to their heart, willing it to calm down. "You scared the hell outta me."

Q rests a hip on the bar. "Hm."

He searches their face, looking for something. He must not find it. "You made quite the impression a few hours ago. Laughing at a superior officer! How bold of you."

Frasier smiles despite themself. It's a little fragile. "Gotta find humor where you can in this big ol' universe. Entertaining yourself's a full time job." They scratch at their cheek and look around. Everyone's going about their day like Q didn't suddenly materialize. "You know when you leave I have to report this, right?"

He scoffs. "Lamentably predictable. Let's enjoy our time together while it lasts, though, shall we?"

They hide a smile by sipping their drink- "ugh, it never gets better"- and says "Let's."

This could be fun.

He hums. Looks through them again. He is truly handsome, they admit. Nice eyes. Tall. Much taller than them, in fact, by more than a foot. He snaps them out of it by talking.

"You're not particularly special, are you?"

Frasier leans their head onto their right palm, elbow planted on the hard counter top. "Well, in the grand scheme of things, no. Most people aren't. I'm not exactly an omniscient, omnipotent, semi-omnipresent being. Personally, though, I think I'm a good time."

Q mirrors them, sliding onto the stool across from the bar and theatrically leaning onto his left palm. "A good time, you say? I'm game. What would that include, if I may ask? Something tells me my idea of a good time is vastly different from yours."

Frasier leans forward. They have a very intriguing gleam in their eyes when they look in the corner of the deck. "How does causing a little chaos sound?"

He follows their gaze to the corner. The Ferengi bicker among themselves endlessly. His eyes flick back to Frasier. 

He smiles with his whole face. "A fascinating idea."

"Thank you, hun, I try."

That makes him chuckle. A chuckle from Q feels dangerous.

"How do you intend to start this chaos of yours? Tampered food? A well-placed banana peel? Insulting their mothers?"

They stand, brush imaginary dust off their jumpsuit. "I'm going to start by saying hello."

"Hello?"

They nod. "Hello. If you'd like to participate, would you be so kind as to materialize several hundred bars of gold-pressed latinum into the Ferengi on the right's guest cabin?"

Savage delight spreads across Q's face. "This _is_ a good time. Gladly."

He snaps, and assumedly dozens of pressed latinum bars pop into existence in the Ferengi's cabin. 

"My turn." 

They walk over to the group of Ferengi. "Hello, can I get you anything, sirs?"

The one Q just fucked over sneers at them. "Fetch us more beetle, woman, before you suffer the consequences."

They flutter their eyelashes and vacantly stare. "Of course, sir. Someone as rich and powerful as you deserves the best quality service."

The Ferengi surrounding him go quiet. "Explain yourself, female! What do you mean? Quok does not-"

Frasier interrupts the particularly hideous one. "Oh, I just thought that someone with such a huge amount of pure, gold-pressed latinum practically _laying around_ and crowding their cabin would be an important figure. Silly me! Must be some other passenger. The sheer amount was so impressive it made me feel very weak and horribly impressed, it must have addled my mind."

Gross.

They left the Ferengi to bicker among themselves, all completely forgetting their beetle request. Frasier walks back to Q who lounges particularly well for someone on a stool. 

"Give it about ten minutes. The one that's sneaking out will get back in five and the arguing will take about five, then out come the phasers. Or," they offer, "he can just so happen to drop one out of his uniform because there was just so _much_ he couldn't keep it all in one place."

Q snaps his fingers before they finish suggesting it, and a rough _thunk_ sounds. Everything goes silent. 

Then Ten Forward erupts into noise. 

They smile into their synthehol again, but this time it's less hollow. Ah, pettiness. Beautiful.

Q plucks Frasier's drink from their fingers, examining it. "A tad simple, that, but briefly entertaining."

Something breaks. They don't care enough to look. He's right; brief is the word for it. But all good things are.

"Not many interesting things last long," they lament.

"All too true, my new friend, all too true." He swirls the drink around distractedly. "As interesting as the battle will be, I'm afraid I must be going. Enjoy the carnage, _mon cher._ A microcosm of the grand chaos of the universe it seems to be shaping up as."

He places the drink on the counter and leans into Frasier's personal space. 

"Makes you feel _powerful,_ doesn't it?"

Then he snaps, and he's gone.

They stare at his now empty chair. _That one needs to come with a warning label,_ they think. 

They reach for their drink and take a swig, but...

... _wine?_

It's red wine. Good red wine, in fact. Just dry enough with beautiful notes of plum.

The report can wait a few minutes.

The Ferengi had turned it into a full-blown fight; a perfect show to watch with red wine. 

Ah, dinner theater.


	2. Stars in Your Hands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Temptation.

Q bugs them about that order for a while.

They have to report their conversations, when he leaves, but they're always private as they happen. He shorts out the cameras, whisks them away to an empty corner of the ship, bothers them at Ten Forward when nobody important is around. Most end up with Q offering to make good on that order. Others are just, to put it simply, to shoot the shit. 

He's a surprisingly good conversationalist. All-knowing isn't a fabrication, either; he literally knows everything there is to know. They _love_ it. They ask all kinds of questions: grand ones, small ones. He finds it nice, he says, to be appreciated for his mind for once. 

"It's always 'save our planet from the volcanic eruption you started, Q' or 'could you tell us the meaning of life, Q'. I don't ordinarily get asked how Bajoran sentence structure evolved to include four separate versions of grammatical declensions."

"I'm fully aware you think I'm about as interesting as a particularly weird bug so I'm gonna milk this for all it's worth. There's a lot of words for you, hun, but none of them are 'boring'." 

He claps his hands together over his heart. "Oh, you flatter me so. What _are_ these words? Please, continue listing my best qualities. If you start now you might get a third of the way through before you turn one hundred."

"Number one: cheeky." 

"He certainly is."

"Number two: smug."

"Wouldn't you be, if you were me?"

Frasier thinks about that. "Okay, point."

Q seems to have a moment of enlightenment. "Oh, I have had an excellent idea!"

They give him a flat stare. "Does it just so happen to be about me giving this ship an order?"

"You know, shore leave is oh-so far away! If only someone overworked, overtired, depressed, d-"

"If you're suggesting I order Picard to give us early shore leave, you're not being very creative."

"Not _creative? Moi?"_ Q pouts, reclining on their bed. He grimaces. "This horrid thing is extraordinarily uncomfortable. Why do you take this abuse?"

Frasier shrugs. "It's whatever. A bed doesn't really matter in the grand scheme of things. I'm a washer for a bolt in the machine that is the Starship Enterprise. I mess around in my own edge of existence and let the little things fall away."

"It's refreshing," Q says, "to speak to a mortal who doesn't have an inflated sense of self importance."

"That's me. A breath of fresh air. Fresh recycled air, I guess." 

Plucking their PADD from the desk, Q sighs. "'The Andorian Endocrine System: Growth from Infancy to Early Childhood'. Light bedtime reading?"

Frasier swipes it back from him. "Do you have a reason for being here other than to manipulate me?"

Q smiles at that. "It's not a visit from me if you're not being manipulated. But yes, I do! I have a question for you."

Dangerous. "Q has a question? I thought you knew everything."

"I tolerate _your_ cheek," he warns. "But even I have my limit."

Silence, for a moment. Then, "you keep telling me Q are limitless, hun. You can't have it both ways."

They suddenly find themselves crowded up against the bulkhead. Frasier's eyes are level with Q's chest, so they have to look up to see his face. It's not...scary, per se. He has a large presence, certainly, and being pressed up against him feels like being chained to a comet. He leans down, uncaring (as always) of personal space. The two are nose-to-nose, but where a human would radiate warmth, Q is a granite block. He doesn't breathe or give them space to. 

"Do you know why I find you somewhat interesting?"

Their heart races. He's... a commanding figure. And unfairly handsome. "N-no. I really don't."

"You don't fear me. I think you have no fear of death. You, the small, ordinary mortal who just so happened to walk in at the wrong time."

They consider that for a moment. He's not wrong, in a lot of ways. They slowly raise a hand to his chest, watching his eyes widen, and slightly push him back. He doesn't move, but the give of his chest is an interesting feeling on their palm.

They clench their other hand tightly, nails digging into the meat of their palm. They stare at their hand on his chest. "I know I'm a... narrow being. I'm not interesting on my own. You're right. I'm nobody. You're the complete opposite of me. I'm a meteor caught in your orbit that'll be bright for a moment then burn out on entry. I really wish I wasn't, to be honest. I wish I was something constantly interesting. You're frustrating, and arrogant, and you're the only... _splendid_ and lovely part of my tiny life. I wish I could be even a fourth of that. But I'm not, and I can't.

"I can't snap my fingers and cure my boredom. I can't create great wonders. I'm nothing. I'm less than an atom in the universe. But," they continue, "I create my own small wonders. For a time."

He steps back, finally. Blank faced, expression carved out of stone, he says, "A meteor, hm? Apt."

They nod their head, a hand flattened over their racing heart. 

Q cocks his head to the side. "I think that's the most genuine sentiment any one being's ever given to me. I've been called a god by countless species, worshiped! But you truly find me... lovely. You find me _splendid._ Frustrating, and arrogant- rightly so, of course."

He reaches out his hand, expecting them to place on of theirs in his. They do. Q places his fingers over their pulse; it's racing, pounding. "I excite you."

He bows over their hand, lips a hair's breadth away from their knuckles. "You have potential, _mon cher._ Such potential."

Then, in a bright flash of light, he's gone.

Only a frantic pulse remains.

* * *

The holo-deck is one of many recreational activities Frasier enjoys, others being playing instruments (storage space is minimal so they make do with their harmonica) and listening to all kinds of music; there was one incident where Q popped in while they were dancing around like an idiot listening to late twentieth century rock and roll.

There's a particular program they work on in their spare time they enjoy playing around in. They lay in an endless scape of stars and blackness, weightless; no gravity exists in the vastness of space. A galaxy floats by in front of them, swirling in beautiful resplendent color and majesty. Fraser reaches a hand out to stir it- the stars part for them freely. They control their own destiny, and the destiny of trillions. A handful is brought to their face, and they feel both minuscule and immense at the same time.

"This is so _adorable._ A crib mobile of stars for the infant explorer."

They don't jump this time. They're too content. "Well then, goo-goo gaga."

Q brushes up against them to look at the galaxy swirling in their palms. "You truly don't fear me at all."

Frasier shakes their head. "Not afraid of death. Not afraid of pain."

He reaches an arm around them to pinch the corner of the mass, twisting it like tissue paper. He still gives off no warmth. "I don't know many mortals unafraid of pain."

"The trick, Q," Fraser murmurs, "is not minding pain."

Something about that pleases him. His free hand rests on their left shoulder, and he leans in close to their ear. 

"You'll welcome death, when it comes for you, but you'll never take that leap." He says it as a fact.

Frasier takes a deep breath in, then out. "Death comes for everyone but you, Q."

He hums. "I understand you, now. You see death as the final escape. You see pain as a brief evasion of the nothingness. That's why you don't fear me. I can kill you, and you'd be happy to have it. I could leave you be, and you'd amuse yourself."

"And you'd be right."

"I, _mon cher,"_ Q whispers, "am always right." He brushes a hand across the nape of their neck, dragging against the tiny hairs. "Would the genuine article impress you?"

 _What kind of question is that?_ "I think I'd give most things to experience that, but not if it'll put me in your debt. That's something I really, really don't want to be."

"Ahh, Frasier, perish the thought! I'm a giving entity! This one's free of charge, like the others. If it'll put that look on your face, that would be payment enough. Your answer?"

A strong, gorgeous feeling fills their soul. 

"I want that," they say with glassy, joy-filled eyes, "with my whole self."

They can practically feel his smirk. They hear a strong _snap,_ and the holodeck fades. 

* * *

Their first sensation is _true_ weightlessness. Resplendent eternity stretches forever. The universe is at their fingertips. A galaxy, spiral arms spread wide, floats in front of them; the silence is the most welcome sound to ever exist, for now. 

"Go ahead," a smooth voice cajoles, "run your fingers through it."

Q. Their heart is pounding, pounding, pounding, and the urge to spread their fingers wide and comb through the largest, smallest thing they've ever perceived is so, so strong.

They're so humbled. They're so powerful. Is this real? How can it be?

But, they have to ask.

"How many... how many people?"

He doesn't need context. "One hundred billion planets. Forty billion carrying life. Two hundred and eighty quintillion living people. All of them, right here, awaiting your ten simple fingers to sift through their lives."

They...

...can't.

"I can't kill these people."

Q traces behind their ear. They shiver. "They wouldn't feel it. A sudden flash. No more."

They _can't._ "I'm not Death."

Nails scrape across their nape. "Temptation. Desire. Vice. Universal emotions, it seems. Inescapable."

"Inescapable." They look at him. "Conquerable."

"If it hurt no one in that galaxy, would you?"

Interesting phrasing. Searching his eyes, they ask, "the ones around it?"

They both know the meaning they're skirting around. He has the most intense expression Frasier has ever seen on anyone. "All actions have consequences."

Tears roll down their cheeks. They can't help it. It's all overwhelming, it's so much, it's filling them up with something they've never felt before. _"Q."_

_Snap._

They're suddenly very much in their own body, reclining on their bed. A small, warm sphere rests in their loosely clenched fist. They open their hand.

A marble. Smooth glass. The inside is one bright point of light, shining strongly from deep within. A window into what they've left behind.

 _A memento, mon cher,_ a ghostly whisper echoes in their ear, _to_ _represent conquerable temptation and rejection of Death._

Sobs wrack their body, the marble clasped to their heart. If only it could melt into their flesh; if only it could become one with their soul. It's theirs. They're so, so selfish. Picard doesn't get this one. He doesn't get to steal it away. He wouldn't understand. Q's not evil, not immoral. Not a monster.

Frasier doesn't know what he is. 

He's just Q.


	3. Human Limitations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's easy. 
> 
> Just put two fingers together,
> 
> and snap.

There's something going on.

There's always something going on, it's the _Enterprise,_ but something feels different about this. It's just a feeling.They've been getting weird feelings recently. Unexplainable ones, and always before the ship is in danger. They're a little freaked out by them.

For some reason, Guinan is steaming. They've learned in their career as a waiter to leave her be when she's like this. 

Guinan's been gentler on them recently. Like they're fragile. She's been trying to calm them down more when someone is taking advantage of the crew members and go through the proper disciplinary channels instead of taking it into their own hands. She always knows when Q's been around them, somehow, and takes it as if he's this corrupting figure stealing away their innocence. Which to be fair he sort of is. Not the innocence part- that's been gone for a while, they really don't want to open that can of worms- but the corrupting part. Each time Q drops in, a chunk of their reality kind of... slides sideways. They think he does it on purpose. Up until the last one (don't think about it don't think about it), Q had been taking them increasingly more and more breathtaking and humbling places. They lie to security when Q takes them places; one particular outing, one of the first, to the exterior of the front disk of the enterprise that had shocked them into silence for an hour was harder to explain, but a fib about Q materializing the holy grail satisfied them.

The one before the last (don't think about it don't think about it) was to the dawn of Andorian life. "You spent a considerable chunk of your short life studying the bloodthirsty blue things, why not?" he had said. After that one they asked Guinan for the day off and spent twenty four hours crying on and off.

Troi is practically begging them at this point to have another session, the last being, according to Deanna, worrying. Nah. Normal therapists never did it for them. They're always trying to label them 'suicidal idealization' this or 'borderline masochism' that. They got this far not having a negative psych file and they're not going to start now.

Guinan approaches them where they're taking a break in the back, a serious look on her face. "Someone you know is coming down here."

"Is it Sobik? I knew he loved me. Irresistible Gordon, they calls me. They being everyone."

_Shut up, Gordon. Why do I never shut up._

Guinan breathes in slowly, closing her eyes. Oops.

"I need you to wait here."

They scratch at their neck. "Alright, but can I at least know who this mystery person is?"

"He's nobody important enough to care about."

Ah. "Alright then. When you need me just hollar."

Guinan nods, then walks into the deck proper.

Interesting.

* * *

Guinan worries for them.

She wasn't kidding when she said they have too much in common. The kid's in danger around Q, because with just the right push at the right time they can be exactly what he wants them to be. She does everything in her power to push back. A kind word and a soft touch to show the importance of being human seems to be all she can manage. 

But she sees them slip away, day after day. The more he digs his claws in the harder it is to pry them away. He shows them the wonders of the universe but none of the parts he's ruined.

That's why she told them to stay in the back.

"I hear they drummed you out of the Continuum," she says, venom and smugness mixing together in her words.

"I like to think of it as a significant career change," he fires back, glaring.

"Just one of the boys."

"One of the boys with an IQ of two thousand and _five."_

"The captain and many of the crew are not yet convinced he is truly human," Data offers her.

Guinan thinks for a second. "...really."

Data nods.

She slyly reaches over to grab a fork. Lightning fast, she brings it down-

-right into the back of his hand.

* * *

_"AGH!"_

_What the hell?_

They stand up, worried, place their PADD ( _screw you, Q, the Andorian Endocrine system is not boring_) and walk out cautiously into Ten Forward proper.

They catch the end of Guinan's sentence, her voice biting out, "-begging. The only way you'll survive is on the charity of others."

She's talking to Q.

Turning around, Guinan sees Frasier gaping at them. Q follows her gaze, eyes falling on Frasier.

He flushes. He's something Frasier has never seen him as: at a loss for words.

"Q?"

He visibly swallows, throat bobbing, and isn't _that_ a strange sight. He's actually breathing, too.

"What the _fuck_ is going on?"

Data helpfully answers. "Q says he has been 'kicked out' of the Q Continuum. He claims to be fully human."

Oh, no. No no no. They run the short distance to him, sliding to a stop a foot away.

"Q, I am _so sorry._ Oh my G-d, I'm so sorry."

They hear Guinan scoff. "You're _sorry?_ For this pitiful thing? He doesn't deserve your sympathy, Frasier, or anybody's. He's getting _exactly_ what's coming to him."

She sweeps away.

Q huffs a breath out his nose, which surprises Frasier into a short exclamation. He's _warm._ He's fully present.

"Your boss doesn't like me very much. I don't know why you tolerate that horrid little creature."

They don't even know what to say. He doesn't seem to, either.

He finally snaps out of it, and leans back. He looks utterly miserable. 

They finally snap out of it as well. "Can I- wait, why are there so many sundaes behind you?"

Q sniffs imperiously. "I was hungry, but I lost my appetite. That troll stole it away from me."

"Don't call Guinan a troll, Q, how many times do I have to tell you? She's a nice lady."

"Fine, fine."

They raise a hand, about to reach out to touch him, but they pull back. Touch without permission isn't welcome when you're violently in your own body, they've learned. "I really want to be embarrassingly human right now and ask if you want a hug."

"Ugh, _no._ What is it with you people _tou_ _ching_ me? I've been molested enough to last an eternity within the last hour, thank you."

They feel that. "It's easier to ignore them if you picture it's your own hands."

He considers that. "Hm."

There's something complicated on his face. He looks embarrased, mostly, but he's looking at them like they can fix something. He leans in, whispers, "you said you create small wonders. Can you create a big one for me?"

_What?_

Data stands, snapping Frasier from their trance and seemingly irritating Q. "If you have decided to not eat, I would ask for you to accompany me back to Engineering."

Huffing, Q stands as well. Wow. He's just gonna leave all of that food, huh. Well, what did they expect.

"I'll come with you," Frasier offers. 

Data shakes his head. "I am afraid you cannot." Data cocks his head to the side. "Based on the way you interact with Q, I assume you two are... friends? The reports only state he occassionally 'stops by', to quote your statements."

Q and Frasier share a look. Q smirks, a little bit of his old self shining through the shell of human flesh. "Stopping by?"

Frasier grimaces. "I might, um. Fudge the details a little. Sorry, Mr. Data."

Data inclines his head once. "To fudge. To present or deal with in a vague, noncommittal, or inadequate way, especially so as to conceal the truth or mislead. T-"

"YEAH. That. Sorry."

"No apologies are necessary, Crewman Gordon. I will however have to write a report on this when the mission has concluded."

Frasier's heart drops. In a small voice, they ask, "does that mean I'll lose my job?"

His answer is drowned out by Q's scared yelp a few feet away.

He's glowing?

Frasier and Data jump into action, but Data's fingers keep sparking off whatever field the glow is creating, and Frasier's being held back by a suddenly reappeared Guinan.

He drops to the floor, the light fading, sweating, and shouts _"Somebody help me!"_

Disdain for him practically drips off of Guinan. "I don't think you get it," she whispers to Frasier. "He's not a little person, the ones you protect. He's a _bully._ He-"

"He's in _pain,_ Guinan!"

"So were those Ferengi you riled up."

They frantically shake their head. "They had it comi-"

Guinan whirls them around, hand an iron bar on their shoulder. She drags them into the back to their shock. They're face to face when she snaps "so did he! I know he's tempting, he shows you wonders, things you could never _imagine!_ But does he show you the things _he's_ done? The suffering? The petty revenge? _Murder?_ Or does that not matter, if he can show you what you want?"

They quiet. Softly, they whisper, "he's not a murderer."

"Then what about Stacey? Nineteen year old Stacey and seventeen others sucked out into space because Q decided Picard needed a _lesson?"_

"Stop it, Guinan."

"No. I tried being gentle about it, but you need a reality check. I said it before and I'll say it again, Q is not your friend."

"I KNOW THAT! We talked abo-"

"You don't talk to him, you talk _at_ him! You need to understand that being out there has done horrible, despicable things because he was-"

"-bored," they quietly finish. 

Guinan shifts her hands from their shoulders to their cheeks. "He says he's teaching lessons. That he's testing people. _Wake up._ He doesn't do it out of obligation or good motives. He does it because he has nothing _better_ to do. Mortals are puppets on strings. Show them a little corner of forever, they'll come running. That's what he thinks.

"He doesn't _love you_ , Frasier. He _plays_ with you."

They bow their head into Guinan's shoulder and start weeping. 

_I could have killed trillions and trillions of people, Guinan,_ they almost tell her. _He would have let me kill them. How is that playing?_

"I-I'm s-so _confused,_ Guinan, he k-keeps saying these confusing fucking things about being l-less than I should be and I-I keep getting these _feelings_ b-before something happens and things j-just _show up! W-w-"_

They clutch at her so tightly it's devastating to see. Sobs wrack their body. "Shh," Guinan whispers, rocking them slightly. "It'll be okay."

"W-what's _happening_ t-to me? I'm _n-nothing."_

"You were in the wrong place at the wrong time, love," Guinan tells them. "You were interesting to the wrong person."

They hiccup out what were supposed to be words. Guinan rubs their back. 

"He's h-human, Guinan. He'll _die._ I don't want him t-to die."

"All things die," she returns.

They weep for a long time.

* * *

They curl up in their bed and try to think about nothing.They get a funny buzz behind their ears, then the ship gets bumped around, but the whole thing could get torn to shreds and they wouldn't care.

_Where is he?_

They don't know.

_Where is he?_

They don't know!

_Where is he?_

Their voice is hoarse. "Computer, where's Q?"

_"He is in shuttle bay six."_

What?

_You have to tell the Captain. He's going to die._

How do they know that?

_Tell the Captain._

They have to tell the Captain. Right now.

They launch themself out of the bed and sprint for the lift.

* * *

"-death of a coward, so be it."

_Q._

_"Q!"_

The screen shows Q in a small shuttle.

_Oh no you don't._

"Fucking COWARD! _COWARD!"_

The bridge crew turns to look at them, gasping for breath, sweating from running. "Crewman, I-" Picard barks, but Frasier beats him to it.

"You're like me for once, huh? Q the mortal? Q the _ti_ _ny? Q the nothing?"_ they shout at him. "Don't you _get_ it? _You don't get to do this!"_ They evade hands grabbing for them, sprinting to the front. 

"Do calm yourself, Gordon, I won't plague your existence any more. No more stars for you to stir. Let me go out my way, hm? What's wrong with that? At least you have something to remember me by," he says. They feel the marble warm their chest in the cage of the necklace they fashioned.

_"BECAUSE IF I DON'T GET TO KILL MYSELF NEITHER DO YOU!"_

Silence.

"Isn't it interesting how you know that? I don't believe anybody _told_ you."

 _"Q!"_ they scream, "This is my order! You wanted me to give it, now here it is! I order you to _COME BACK!"_

All he does is smile. "So close, _mon cher,_ that one was so _close._ You just forgot one little thing. You cling so tightly to it."

The screen goes black. They fall to their knees, staring at the black mirror

Surprisingly, the first to approach them is Troi. She kneels in front of them, loosely holding their hands. She says nothing. She envelops them in a soft hug and they start crying again; they don't want to think about the wash of emotions Troi must be getting. Frasier rocks back and forth, beyond words. They feel gutted and hollow.

Picard has walked over to Data, speaking quietly; Frasier's not important to him right now. Not important. Not important.

Not important.

"Can you stand up for me?" Troi asks them when they quiet a little. "It'll help."

They shake their head, tears scattering across the floor in their frantic motion. "I d-don't want to. I don't want to do a-anything _."_ They look up at the kind, kind eyes of the Counselor, shivering and gasping and choking, clutching the chain of their necklace. "I w-wish I wasn't _small."_

"Did he tell you that?" 

They gulp. "He t-tried to-" then they pause. 

They have a thought.

"He t-tried to t-tell me I could... I could.. _."_

They untuck the marble from under their shirt. It's as warm as it always is. A point of light shines both inches and millions of light years from their eyes. They clench their fist around it and lean back into Troi for a moment, then slowly rise to their feet. 

"I suppose," the Captain says as he looks at Frasier, pity in his voice, "that is the end of Q."

It feels final.

_Snap._

" _Au contraire, mon capitan!_ He's _back!"_

It's Q. And he's playing the trumpet? There's a mariachi band. On the bridge. Q does a little solo, dancing his way over to the Captain and Riker in his own mariachi outfit. Frasier doesn't know what the fuck is going on.

 _Snap._ Frasier suddenly feels a cigar materialize in their mouth, but they pull it away. Picard and Riker have cigars hanging from their lips too, suddenly, but rip them away just as quickly as they appeared. "I'm forgiven!" Q happily crows, "my brothers and sisters in the Continuum have taken me back. I'm _immortal_ again! _Omnipotent_ again!"

"Swell," Riker deadpans.

Q smiles indulgently at him. "Don't fret, Riker, my good fortune is your good fortune." A snap, and Riker has two beautiful women hanging from his arms, batting long eyelashes at him adoringly.

He looks down at them for a beat, then tells Q flatly,"I don't need your fantasy women."

"Oh, you're so stolid. You weren't like that before the beard." Q sighs, looking unimpressed. "Very well." Another snap, and Worf suddenly has the two women hanging on him.

"Q!" Picard barks at him.

Q makes a grand gesture, trumpet moving with his hands. "But I feel like celebrating!"

Picard barks again. "I _don't_!"

Q sighs again, looking put-upon. "Alright." _Snap._

The women disappear. "All of it," Picard bites out.

"Ugh." _Snap._ Everyone's cigar goes _poof,_ and the mariachi band disappears in a flash of light. Q's back in his normal Admiral reds, looking so, so smug.

"Now at the risk of seeming rude," Picard says flatly.

"Yes, once again I've overstayed my welcome. As a human I was ill equipped to thank you, but as myself you have my everlasting gratitude." He blows Picard a kiss. "Until next time. Ah," he pauses. "But before I go, there's two things I must see to.

"To my professor of the humanities," Q says to Data, "Data, I've decided to give you something very, very special."

"If your intention is to make me human, I-"

"Oh, no no no," Q interrupts. "I would never curse you by making you human. Think of it as a going away present."

Data cocks his head to the side.

"To my darling Frasier Gordon." Q turns to look at them, Troi still holding on to them. "No tears, no tears. Shed not a tear for poor old Q. Haven't you heard?" He strides forward, marble once again. "I'm _big_ again."

Frasier smiles. Really, truly smiles. They laugh, so happy they can't contain it. "Welcome back, hun."

"Ah, my gift to you is simple: the truth." He leans forward, uncaring of Troi shielding them with her body. "Oh, Deanna, they are in no danger from _me._ It's all of you they're afraid of. One order from Jean-luc and there goes their job, just like that. The stars would be a distant memory."

 _Snap._ Troi is the one hanging off of Riker's arm, this time, but she looks decidedly less happy than the other ones had. 

"Frasier, Frasier," Q fondly says. He grabs their hands, placing one on his shoulder and the other loosely held in his grasp. His free hand lays on their waist. "The truth." He sweeps them across the room; he's an excellent lead. 

Stopping at the very front of the deck, he bows his head to their ear. "It's easy." Q cups their hand, and maneuvers their thumb to rest on their middle finger. "You know it is."

They feel small and big and narrow and wide all at once. "Sifting stars?"

He nods, dips them in an exaggerated move. His arm is a steel bar behind their back. A wicked smile lights across his face. His bigger hand tightens around their small one. "Why stop there?"

"Frasier," Deanna calls, but it's background noise. 

It's that easy. That's what they were missing. What they were clinging to.

"You get it, you little, little thing," he whispers, delighted. "Oh, what fun we'll have. Just put two fingers together, and-"

_Snap._


	4. In Their Heads

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Short vignettes of how the crew of the Enterprise views Frasier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter SUCKS. ive been messing with it enough so i give up here you go.

* * *

**Deanna**

* * *

Intensely private, cagey, cautious. Mistrustful of authority. Reluctant to analyze their own feelings. Frasier is- was?- either a counselor's worst nightmare or grandest dream.

Deanna only had one session with Frasier, before they disappeared. She learned more about them in that one session than every other interaction they'd ever had combined.

"Thanks for the concern, Counselor Troi. I really do appreciate it, but I don't need therapy. I'm just fine. Everything's golden in Frasier Town."

_/denial/deflection/_

Deanna crosses her legs and clasps hands over her knees. "Please, Frasier, call me Deanna. Therapy is more long-term and in-depth. What I'm offering is _counseling_ , a judgement free space to sort through your emotions in a healthy way, every once in a while."

"Thanks for the concern, Deanna. I just don't need this. You're a lovely lady, ma'am, but I'm good."

_/self-reproach/exhaustion/_

"Alright. I'd at least like to finish this session, if you're agreeable? I'm sure you're not looking forward to returning to Ten Forward at the moment." Deanna smiles slightly. "I know you don't like crowds."

_/exhaustionexhaustion/impatience/deflection/_

"Nice try," Frasier laughs, "But no dice. I saw that trap a mile away."

She sighs. "In the spirit of honesty, Frasier, I'm _worried_ about you. You seem to be falling into several negative thought patterns from what I've sensed, and it's concerning."

"My thought patterns are plaid and I like them." They scratch at a spot on their neck. "And I know you probably can't help it, but can you not tell me when you're poking around in my head?"

"Alright." Deanna uncrosses her legs and sits up straighter. "You seem to value your privacy a great deal."

_/embarrassment/_

"Yeah."

Deanna holds on that a moment, then says, "I know this is a routine check-in, of course, and there's no need for you to answer, but I'd like to ask you about your interactions with Q."

_/surprise/shock/ **identification** /confusionconfusionconfusion/wonder/frustration!!!!!/_

"There's not much to say about him I haven't already put in my reports, really."

Deanna sincerely doubts that.

They continue. "He drops in now and then, says he's got a new idea about that order, I tell him no, he gets bored and leaves. Pretty routinely."

'Routine' is not a word she'd ever associate with Q, at least with the interactions she's had with him. "How do these meetings of yours and Q-"

"I'd be careful, Deanna, actually," Frasier interrupts, "he tends to listen in to stuff about him. I'd hold off on saying his name again."

"And you've noticed this?"

They shrug one shoulder. "Saying it isn't really the thing. It's more like if you think about the concept of him out of all of them but not just the entirety of them he knows. Name or not. But the name part focuses it in kinda? Like the difference between a magnifying glass and a microscope. He's him but he's also them. That's uh. Just what I've noticed of course. Yeah."

That seems to be much more than what they write in their reports. Maybe she can still help. "You've given this a lot of thought."

They nod. "Yeah. That's me. Thinking Gordon. He gives a lot to think about."

"Such as?"

Frasier rubs at their cheek, fussing with a scab. "Thinking in general, mostly. Thinking about the universe. Where people fit in it." Their eyes go far away for a moment. "Where life starts."

_/exhaustion/wonder/awe/OVERWHELMING SENSE OF SMA-/_

"Did you know Andorians started as little chitinous pill-bug creatures? I didn't. I was reading part one of someone's thesis on Andorian Endocrinology and he b-" they cut themself off.

 _/frustration/self-flagellation/doubt/_ _bitterness/_

"He, uh, told me about it. It doesn't matter. I don't know."

 _/sadnesssadnesssadnesssadnesssadnessSADNESSSADNESSS-_ _**/** _

"Not like I can research it further."

Deanna hums. "You're an educated person, Frasier, why not? If I recall correctly your qualifications are above and beyond what Starfleet is looking for in field researchers."

They snort out a laugh, plant their chin on a raised knee. "I tried. I was fresh out of Starfleet academy, but since there were too many xenolinguistics majors in my class, the demand for 'em got filled real quick. I'd die of boredom if I had to stay in that dorm another day, so I signed up for general Crewman status in Ten Forward. How else was I gonna see the universe? Launch myself into space with bottle rockets? Shred my diploma to make fire starters on some garbage backwater colony planet? I've gotta find some kind of entertainment in this universe or I-"

They stop themself again. They focus their eyes in on Deanna.

"But that's enough about me, Counselor. People fall through the cracks of the system. I'm fine with being The Crew. A tiny, tiny circuit in the machine that is the Starship Enterprise. The big people call the shots, don't they. They get what they want out of the little people."

_/resentment/_

They stand. Deanna rises, following them to the exit. "Please, Frasier, it's Deanna. I hope you can come back some time, I'd like to hear more about that xenolinguistics degree."

Frasier stops in place in front of the open exit, staring at Deanna. Their eyes are cold. "Have a good one, Counselor Troi." They sign off their appointment on Deanna's offered PADD. "If you need me ask Guinan for Crewman Gordon. I'll see you around, ma'am."

As they walk out, the last thing Deanna senses...

**_/BETRAYAL./_ **

* * *

**Data (+ Geordi)**

* * *

"Geordi, I have one last question pertaining to this subject, about those who wish to terminate their existence such as Lieutenant Kwan did."

Geordi nods, settling his side more comfortably against the wall. "Go right ahead."

"This situation reminds me of Crewman Gordon, and their statement the day they disappeared. They had shouted at Q, 'Because if I don't get to kill myself, neither do you.' This... confuses me. Why did Lieutenant Kwan decide to take his own life, but Gordon did not?"

Quiet, Geordi thinks about it. Finally, he answers, "I don't know. I didn't know Gordon as well as you did, Data, so any answer I'd have for you probably wouldn't be right. The only thing I can say for certain is that people handle those feelings in different ways. As for Gordon? They've been gone for a while, so I'm not entirely sure _they're_ alive, either. Q's not exactly known for keeping his 'friends' safe. Assisted suicide is still suicide."

A nod. "I believe I understand. I must say, however, that while I _did_ know Gordon, I did not know them _'well'._ Their actions were a surprise to me, as was their statement. What truly confuses me is that in all of our interactions, Gordon did not act as if they were wishing for death."

"Well," says Geordi, "it could've been that survival instinct you asked about. Or somebody was preventing them from doing it. Maybe it was because they..." he trails off, trying to think.

He gathers his thoughts and continues. "The only one who knew was Gordon. They had their reasons just like Kwan did."

Data slightly cocks his head to the side. "Gordon was a very private person. Many of our conversations were purely intellectual in nature. I also observed their interactions with others; I am not certain I have the capacity to ascertain what Counselor Troi describes as 'tone', but I did notice Gordon was 'friendly', but often reserved when questioned about themself. Is this a trait often shared between those who wish to terminate their own existence?"

"I can't say, Data. Everyone's different. Some people can act as if they're the happiest person in the galaxy when in reality they're completely miserable."

Another nod. "Thank you for explaining."

"Any time. If you have any more questions about Gordon, I'd suggest Guinan or Reg. They knew them the best."

Data blinks, and says, "I was not aware that Lieutenant Barklay and Gordon were acquainted."

This makes Geordi smile. "Let's just say Reg won a bet."

* * *

**Reg**

* * *

The two are sitting alone at a table in an empty recreation deck, playing cards discarded in favor of chatting.

Theirs is an unusual friendship, but a surprisingly strong one. He finds them interesting. Very much so. They always seem so sad, though, like they're a cold spot in the room. He tries his best to make himself available to talk to but they never seen interested in sharing what bothers them, which Reg understands completely; they're both introverted by nature and that creates a desperate need for privacy.

He can't seem to stop himself from sharing his thoughts on everything, all the while wishing they would return with theirs. That never happens, of course. He's doomed to be Just Reg.

Frasier considers him closely for a moment. "You're being awful bold today, hun. What gave _you_ a wild hair this morning?"

He tries for something suave he'd been practicing. "Perhaps I've been planning this for a long time?"

Perfect delivery.

They snort and shove at his arm with their hand. "Try again, Reg."

Of course not. His pulse jumps again and he puts his hands in his lap to hide the tremble. "You bring out the spontaneity in me."

They hum, an indulgent smile evident in the tone. "You play dirty pool. Remind me to not bet against you on cards again."

They stand up with a few _crack pop creaks_ of their knees, Reg following. Frasier dusts off their jumpsuit. 

They grab his forearms and maneuver him so he's facing them head-on, then stand on their tip-toes, cup the back of his head and bring him down for a kiss on the cheek. "You're too cute, Reg. You get this _one date._ One. I'm not for you."

He feels like he's going to pass out. Frasier steps back, smiling a little, place their hands on their hips. They look unfazed and grin amusedly at his state. "I'll see you tomorrow after my shift for that date."

They're not affected by him at all and Reg feels as if he's going to have a heart attack. "Splendid," he peeps. 

Frasier pats his arm and brushes by him to the exit into the hall, calling, "I'll give you a moment. See you later, hun. Seriously, remind me to never bet against you again!"

Silence is his only company when they're gone. He flops back into his chair and thumps his forehead on the table. Ouch. They really don't feel anything for him, do they. Oh, well. He's resigned himself to that fact. Content with being Just Reg to them. They're a good friend he'd hate to lose.

But they're not going anywhere, so he'll _try_ to not worry about it too much.

* * *

**Wesley**

* * *

"No, no, you don't get it. Fairness isn't something the universe _acknowledges._ It's a branch of justice, which is a sentient creature thing. Do wild animals know what fairness is? If a cat scratches me and I put it in a cage, the cat won't think 'it's only fair'. It won't think at all."

"So empathy isn't natural? Justice isn't natural?"

Frasier shakes their head. "You're not thinking, Wes. I believe in justice as a human- or, well, sentient being- need for balance. The universe always balances itself out, but not out of any empathy or moral need for justice for the people that live in it. That's up to people like me and you."

"I'm still confused, you didn't answer my original question," Wesley returns. "Why do you think it's _your_ job? There's security officers and the proper channels for stuff like this."

"If I see someone taking advantage of another person, I'm gonna make sure the person taking advantage gets what's coming to them. If someone needs to get knocked down a peg, or needs to learn a lesson, 'the proper channels' don't mean shi- erm, don't mean much. A slap on the wrist to someone being a dic- being _unreasonably rude_ to people who can't fight back isn't balance. Nobody learns anything, especially those being awful, if they don't get challenged or face serious consequences."

 _They really, really sound like what Mom says Q is like._ "I think I get what you're saying, but I don't know if I agree with all of it."

"That," Frasier tells him, "is your prerogative. I like you, Wes, even though we disagree on a lot. You're a good kid and sharp as all get out. Just keep in mind..."

They lean over the bar into his space, sliding his forgotten sandwich closer to his hands. "Don't be a snitch. That's a bummer."

* * *

**Picard (+ Guinan)**

* * *

Writing condolences never became easier.

He has been attempting to describe how Crewman Gordon has disappeared for the better half of two hours. Mrs. Susanne Gordon and Mr. Silas Gordon, Frasier's grandmother and grandfather, would be fed lies no matter how he phrased them.

 _Mr. + Mrs. Gordon, I regret to inform you your grandchild has been declared missing. There is probable cause to assume they_ ~~ _are de_ _ad_~~ ~~_are dece_ _as_ _ed_~~ ~~_are no longer human_~~ ~~_are misguided_~~ _have passed. I_ _t is my duty as Captain to prevent these occurrences, but on this occasion, I have failed_.

 _I write this to ~~explain~~ offer my sincerest apologies for my _ _~~disastrous inability~~ _ ~~_oversight_ ~~ _failure to ~~protect~~ ~~shield~~ return them home safely. _

If anything, each condolence is harder than the last.

Someone's at his cabin door. "Come."

Guinan strides in. Jean-luc suddenly feels much wearier. "Guinan."

"Jean-luc," she greets him. "I think it's for the best if we talk about what happened."

He's something he hasn't been in a long time: at a loss for words. "I... yes. Please, sit."

She sits across him, threads her fingers together and lays them on the table. Both are silent for a moment, gathering their thoughts.

Guinan breaks the silence. "This isn't your fault."

"Crewman Frasier Gordon is- _was-_ a member of my crew," Jean-luc replies. "It is my duty to protect those under me. On this occasion, I had more to do with what happened than I did not."

"Then with that logic, it's my fault, too. Member of _your_ crew, yes, but _my_ friend." She shakes her head. "Do you blame _me?_ "

Jean-luc allows himself a sigh. "No. Of course not. The blame falls on no one but Q."

"You're right. But it doesn't change the fact they're gone, and it doesn't make it better." Guinan's eyes are steely, her hands tightly clasped together. "Jean-luc, I never want something like this to happen again. We aren't to blame, but sometimes that doesn't matter. This is your ship, do with it what you want to do with it, but something needs to change."

"I don't know what you want from me, Guinan. Do I regret this has happened? Immeasurably. Will I let it control me? No. The loss of human life is a horrible thing, and it is not something to take lightly, but _I_ do not have the ability to _snap my fingers_ and fix the lives of all those who work here. Gordon was an extenuating circumstance. They became interesting in a galaxy where interesting people are in constant peril."

She inspects his eyes, like she can see through him. She doesn't hold back when she asks, "Did you use Frasier to keep an eye on Q?"

Long-cold tea mocks him from the edge of the table. "Keeping an eye on him is an exercise in futility. I thought I could use their reports to better understand how he thinks. I underestimated him. It never occurred to me Gordon would omit so much of the truth, more fool me."

Guinan closes her eyes for a moment, blowing an exhausted breath from her nose. "I need your word, Jean-luc, that you won't do that again."

He nods. "I should not have done it in the first place. In retrospect, I see how much like... gambling it was. In any other circumstance I would not have considered it an option."

"If I've learned anything in my life," Guinan shares, standing, "it's that you can only control what's yours, and the only thing that's yours is yourself. Frasier's smarter than they want everyone to think. They've probably been onto you from the start. They've never liked being used, or controlled, or seen as a tool, which is why it _confuses_ me so much they've done this."

"You believe them to be alive?"

"I _have_ to believe they're alive. Or some kind of alive, at least."

"That particular thought is what I fear the most."

She walks to his door. "Thanks for listening, Jean-luc. I appreciate it."

"Of course."

She leaves.

He looks at the empty chair for a long while. Reaching for his long-cold tea, his hand bumps into something that wasn't previously there.

It's a hard copy of _King Lear._ There are two red ribbons peeking from two separate parts of the play. He opens it to the first bookmark, sees a slightly highlighted line. 

_I heard myself proclaimed,_  
_And by the happy hollow of a tree_  
_Escaped the hunt._ _No port is free, no place_  
_That guard and most unusual vigilance_  
_Does not attend my taking._ _Whiles I may ’scape,_  
_I will preserve myself, and am bethought_  
_To take the basest and most poorest shape_  
_That ever penury in contempt of man_  
_Brought near to beast. My face I’ll grime with filth,_  
_Blanket my loins, elf all my hair in knots,_  
_And with presented nakedness outface_  
_The winds and persecutions of the sky._ _The country gives me proof and precedent_  
_Of Bedlam beggars, who with roaring voices_  
_Strike in their numbed and mortified bare arms_  
_Pins, wooden pricks, nails, sprigs of rosemary,_  
_And with this horrible object from low farms,_  
_Poor pelting villages, sheepcotes, and mills,_  
_Sometime with lunatic bans, sometime with prayers,_  
_Enforce their charity. “Poor Turlygod!” “Poor Tom!”—_  
_That’s something yet. Edgar I nothing am._

He pages to the next bookmarked act, feeling so, so weary.

_A most poor man made tame to fortune’s blows,_  
_Who by the art of known and feeling sorrows_  
_Am pregnant to good pity._

Jean-luc thinks, _do they truly see themself this way? Do they truly see themself as Edgar, as Poor Tom? That they can only do good as they are now? Or is this a game Q's trying to play?_

He doesn't know.

The only thing he does know? 

He has condolences to write.


End file.
